Laughing at Live Dragons: A Journalist's Account of a Heist
by Josephine Girard
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield lost his family's fortune and estate at the hands of trickery and violence of a cunning businessman Smaug. With a crew of thirteen aspiring robbers, a man with a vendetta against Smaug and the journalist that was unwillingly sucked into the plot he is determined to pull a daring heist so he may take back his own. All rights to ragadasts, owner of the idea.
1. Southwark Tavern

_22 Stoney Street, London SE1 1TU, United Kingdom. The Southwark Tavern. __Saturday May 14, __1:30 p.m_

Thorin Oakenshield sat on the stool sitting up straight, with a disdainful look for those around him. Balin had often noticed that swagger and seldom poked fun at it; when he had, Thorin had shrugged it off good naturally but still looked like he did not like to be told about it. It was an aristocrat's way of walking, he once had thought, but ignored his own remark. Right now, though, his scowl became less deep as he scrolled down his iPhone absently.

All while the Southwark Tavern screamed their heads off over an Arsenal game.

As soon as Balin approached Thorin lifted his head and smiled in welcome. "Balin. Did you call Fili and Kili?" he asked. Balin nodded. "Fili said no, Kili said yes, but I guarantee they will both come." "They has to come," said Thorin slowly, his phone now forgotten on his lap. "Not only would they be instrumental, it concerns them too," he added, and Balin nodded solemnly at this phrase. "Who else is on the list again, remind me?" said Balin. He was trying to forget his thoughts should the brothers not come. Why would they say no? They would be interested in the rewards, they would be interested in the adventure involved…

"To begin with the smaller roles: Oin and Gloin Groinson," said Thorin, and Balin suppressed a snigger. He had never gotten over those names when he had first heard them.

"Following them are Bofur, the ammunitions' expert; and his cousin Bifur…if we get him to come," sighed Balin. "Is he really impaired by that bullet-?"

"No. He was in a job in Munich six months after the shot, and in a few others, but got out of the game later. He doesn't speak much because of the bullet, but he can… sometimes."

"What about Bofur? Would he be willing?"

"Certainly. He lives in the same flat as someone else on the list," said Thorin.

"That bloke…the cat burglar…Nori?" asked Balin in surprise. He paced around his friend's seat.

"Of course. He'll agree to help us in an instant. I heard he got in trouble with the French authorities. He was smuggling these priceless paintings from an antique art gallery," explained Thorin gravely.

"Nori was Dori's brother, no?" thought Balin aloud. Thorin sighed.

"Dori used to fence for some, but those days are past since Nori got into the game," he explained, his words heavy. "Ori's at MIT and Dori doesn't want him to be involved in it."

"Ori? Ah, yes…the technology whiz kid," recalled Balin as he watched a particularly rowdy group of Englishmen boo at the screens vigorously. "He might be useful, too."

"He's been moonlighting, and Dori pretends not to hear about it; busy as he is with company," remarked Thorin solemnly as he returned to his phone.

"What about Bofur's brother, Bombur?" asked Balin enthusiastically.

"Ah, yes, but I wouldn't tell Bofur that," noted Thorin. "He'll come." Balin nodded, knowing that when Thorin ended a conversation, it ended. "Dwalin's in, you already told me that…"

"But exactly how are we doing the job? You've told me the basics. What about the sources?"

Thorin sighed, and gestured to the stool beside him, motioning him to sit down. "The source was, as you know, Gandalf." Balin nodded.

"Funny surname."

"That doesn't matter. He's given me the information needed to pull him out of his stolen nest, damn him," growled Thorin at the end, and Balin looked down, remembering their mark.

"How do we know it's not a trap? Smaug's clever enough to try and bait us into hitting him back," asked Balin rashly, his words angry.

He had been there when the deal happened, and the Durin family had been turned out their own doors. Their estate and their money had been swallowed by the greedy business partner, and two weeks before they were supposed to be evicted from their own mansion, Erebor, they had been ambushed with explosions and bombs out of their home. Thorin had been only fourteen, and his father and grandfather had died crushed by the debris. One group of detectives had died in the subsequent explosions, while the other one, led by DI Thranduil, had been neglectful of the case. Thorin had gone through a hard life, but he managed to build himself a life of commodity, mostly thanks to his cousins who had lived with him, Balin and Dwalin. Even his sister Dis had learned to survive and thrive, but they had learned other skills along the way.

"Because he has his own agenda against Smaug," explained Thorin. "I made sure of it. I'm not easily fooled, Balin."

"But it's impossible, Thorin. The first thing is, he's agoraphobic," pointed out Balin.

"No-everyone says he is, but that doesn't mean he won't come out," disagreed Thorin. "One thing Gandalf did tell me is that he is not agoraphobic, despite never having left our mansion once remodeled," grunted Thorin. His scowl deepened as he thought of their mansion remodeled by the filthy-

"Say he's not. He has literally the least accessible security system in the UK, which can only be accessed from two points inside the house, the master bathroom and the vault." The vault. That was the hardest part. In the explosions most of the house had been destroyed, but the vault was left untouched-until Thranduil's men had approached it a few hours after the incident and found it to be rubble, but not before noticing its contents were empty.

"Ori's work."

"What about

"Our crew are aspiring thieves, Thorin," whispered Balin to his friend, leaning to his ear. "We have some information on our side, yes, but if we are caught Smaug won't even bother with the police. I am the last person to let sleeping dogs lie, but why now, after all this time?" mumbled Balin.

Thorin looked at his friend kindly as the Liverpool team scored, and the roars of outrage shook the pub. "It is Gandalf, not some first timer, that is telling us we have a chance. We do have a lot to lose."

"Our lives, basically, our freedom if Smaug is kind, so not much," grumbled Balin sarcastically.

"We have to," said Thorin, decision in his every word. "Let's go over the list again..."


	2. Marlin Apartments

_Empire Square 34 Long Lane, London, City of London, Marlin Apartments. Tuesday May 17, 10:37 a.m_

"Hurry up, Kili. You used to pick a lock in two min-"

"You used to be more patient with me. All these years studying law must have-ah, there you go."

No one but three or four men in the city of London knew of the theft that was happening in plain daylight. A late spring day, the sun was out shining on the crowds of ever-present tourists in the great town. Instead, in Marlin Apartments the cameras were being fooled as two men stood on the top floor living room of Apartment 14 crouching over the lock.

Kili flashed his trademark mischievous smile of perfect white teeth. Never mind the remains of the lock that now fell on the floor; when he nudged it lightly the door swung open obediently, and Fili smiled in approval and nodded. Kili took off his mink glove and breathed lightly on it, and let out a quiet laugh when his brother rolled his eyes and motioned to the door for him to get in.

They were entered dressed in black, but their heads were bare, revealing Kili's wavy black wiry hair and coffee brown eyes glinting naughtily and Fili's closely cut fair hair and impatient face. A black duffel back was at their feet with the equipment they needed.

"Let's get on with this; it's the tricky part," admonished Fili as he stepped through the threshold and gestured his brother to follow, as he was still poring over his success with the lock. Kili sighed, put on his glove and followed him, and then as he took a look around the room, he whistled lowly in amazement.

The room was furnished luxuriously, even though Kili had been to even more elegantly decorated flats. Brown wooden polished floors were what they walked on, thick crimson expensive-looking curtains were closed over the windows and a plush garnet pillows were spread over an equally scarlet bed sheet on the king-size bed. The golden walls bedecked the rest of the room nicely with brown moldings. It all seemed elegant, but Kili knew the only prize was what was inside the chiffonier of exotic tropical wood that according to their information had been smuggled from the Venezuelan rainforest Fili was approaching casually.

Kili once again took off his right glove to check his watch. "It's 10:40 already. Weren't the students supposed to-?"

Fili shushed him as he walked to the window and drew the curtains just a tiny bit to get a glimpse of what was outside, then grinned as he closed them again. "They're almost here."

Faraway roars and shouts could be heard from the flat, and Kili nodded. "Alright, then."

"I hope that it really causes the distraction," said Fili nervously as he pulled out two small circular chainsaws the size of a beach ball. "Remember, we can't let it fall inside the-"

"I know, I know," interrupted Kili as he took it gingerly and then smiled as the distant screams became much more audible. They waited beside the chiffonier until the yells were almost next to them.

The student manifestation had been timed perfectly, reflected Kili as he sawed away the top of the bureau eagerly.

"Don't let the piece we're cutting off fall in-the alarm will activate. It's only reason why we're sawing this off and not simply opening the top drawer," Fili reminded Kili.

The sawing sounds were faint in comparison with the racket outside them. When they finally achieved a full circle at the top of it, Fili carefully lifted the piece they had cut off, to not disable the alarm. Inside were a few clothes laid out inside the drawer they were trying to access. Kili stealthily placed the clothes away on the floor: revealing six cases. One had a magnificent diamond necklace, another golden and emerald bracelets, another a turquoise head mask that looked like it might have been looted from an Indian temple…the priceless works were stunning. Fili let out a laugh of excitement and gestured to his brother so he may take out the merchandise. He nodded him return, and Fili went to the window catiously to watch the progress of the crowd.

The crowds filled the entire road, which was mainly composed of young men and women, all screaming quite loudly. They held banners and had bullhorns-quite a racket. Fili repressed a whistle of surprise when they began tossing bricks through the nearby windows. Honestly, he felt like a fish out of water. After years in Harvard the outside world seemed madness. It had only been because of Kili's graduation at the London School of Economics that he was pulled out of school for an instant. And when a job had been tossed Kili's way (what had his brother been doing all that time?) he couldn't resist but to join.

"You know, I feel kind of bad for the guy we're framing," confessed Kili as he took out a plastic bag from the duffel bag and placed a single red hair inside the drawer.

Fili widened his eyes. "You do? He completely deserves it. And so does this woman; they're all stolen anyway," he reminded his brother as he took out the cases ever so carefully.

"Because it's six million pounds in jewels!" explained Kili with a smile as they loaded the last case into their duffel bag. "Now let's hurry up and change our clothes," he ushered Fili. "The manifestation won't be forever, and Jean gets only one shot at throwing that Molotov cocktail."

Once into regular clothes-Kili had a plaid shirt and black pants, a cap and black sunglasses, while Fili wore a red tee and jeans-Fili slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, and looked at his watch as they went back to the living room. _One, two-THREE_, he mouthed.

At the three, a loud explosion shook the building. Screams erupted from everywhere below them as the apartment owners ran below to see what was going on. Fili and Kili waited until all the running down the stairs was done and simply walked out, closing the door on the way out. It had been easy to neutralize the cameras a week before the robbery.

It was then when Kili's phone rang loudly, and Fili's eyes widened in absolute disbelief and rage. Kili took off his sunglasses and checked it quickly as he read the message that had reached him. Kili showed him the screen.

_GLASGOW. MAY 21. TO._

Then they dashed the quietest they could down the aisle, down the stairs and to the second floor. The second floor aisle was empty, thankfully, as they looked out a window that was beside the emergency stairwell-bingo. Opening it for his brother, Fili nodded Kili to go out, and once he did Fili followed.

The outside camera was also dead, they remembered as they walked down the stairs to the white van that was parked beside the window. No one paid any attention as fights had broken out everywhere on the road, and they walked down the stairs as if nothing had happened. The door opened, and their associate waved them to get in quickly.


	3. Galleria d'Arte Azur

_Conca del Naviglio 18, Milan, Italy; Galleria d'Arte Azur. __Wednesday May 18, 2:32 p.m._

The hallways were painted immaculate white; the floors were of black granite. There was supposed to be an entire psychology to the decision of the colors, but Nori could see no difference. These days he usually paced up and down the halls uncomfortably. Despite being thankful of Bofur taking him under his wing he wasn't very interested in the work he was doing to clear his name while the commotion died down in France. Right now, however, he looked perfectly respectable to the common citizen: a silk gray suit of dubious origins (all Bofur had done was laugh when he had been asked about the origins), red tie, gray pants, black shoes. A persistent noise, probably footsteps, echoed through the gallery.

The walls were embellished with countless priceless works of art-paintings, the occasional sculpture on a stand, even photographs. Nori walked past each of them with a faint smile on his face. _I stole this one at that private collection at Grenoble. And this one was from the same house. Or was it from the museum at Bordeaux? That sculpture...I didn't take it. Well, one object less to get arrested for._ He passed a Modigliani he did not recognize very well, and he stared at it for a moment. It depicted a woman in a bright yellow background. Then, as the sound of footsteps became louder and seemed to be coming from behind him, Nori turned around and smiled at the approaching man civilly.

It was Bofur, dressed as elegantly as he, with a group of young men and women that were in charge of the maintenance of the art gallery, and some students that were visiting; and he was walking quite quickly and in agitation. He grinned at Nori brightly and then turned to the painting he had been admiring. He inspected it for an instant, and then turned to the group behind him.

"People? Why is this painting here? I know we're trying to achieve order, but why this fine painting in the middle of the gallery?"

A woman looked uncomfortable, then answered nervously, "You told us to arrange in groups of painters, which we did."

Bofur nodded. "Good work. But don't you think that it might be better at the entrance? It screams 'Look here! I am beautiful! So are you! Come in and look!' " he declared, his Scottish accent marring his words slightly, and he laughed at the end of his words.

Nori rolled his eyes impulsively.

Bofur crossed the hall to the other side, still taking in the paintings, and then looked at Nori. "Come along?"

Nori nodded and mumbled out in agreement, but still shuffled along the group somewhat unwillingly. He smirked when a young man in the group pointed to a painting, revealing the wallet inside his jacket, and looked in the opposite direction to ignore the temptation. Bofur nudged him teasingly as he saw his discomfort. "Kleptomania?"

Nori rolled his eyes, and Bofur laughed. "Ignore me; we're getting close to the section where they give out sausages, cheese and wine."

Now it was Nori's turn to laugh. "Sausages? What for?" His voice had a recognizable and hard to drop cockney accent. One thing why he rarely spoke around the authorities.

Bofur grinned once again. "Oh, according to the polls, it's one food the tourists would like to see at an art gallery. Thankfully, they're delicious."

"But we're in Italy. Shouldn't you be serving something a little finer?"

"Wine is good!" protested Bofur. "You should see how delicious-and expensive-they were."

"And the tourists get it for free?"

"Why not? They pay enough entering this place," explained Bofur with a smile. "After all, all these fenced paintings-"

Nori shushed him in alarm, but Bofur gave him a trusting smile. "Please. No one in this aisle can speak English, and we're speaking to quietly to be heard by the cameras."

"Yes, but... please. Stop blurting out whatever comes into your mind about where the paintings came from," pleaded Nori. They were reaching two different aisles.

"I'll be careful from now on. Ah, what have we got here?"

One of the men starting speaking in Italian and gesturing to the paintings down the right side.

"Yes, that's right. That's the Turner section...mostly legal," he mumbled the two last words, and Nori glared at him, unamused by the last words. "Romanticism or Minimalism?"

The students were split equally, as Nori could hear complaints on both sides, and Bofur chuckled. "I'll choose then. Romanticism, to the right!"

A few groans were audible but Bofur ignored them masterfully as he walked beside Nori to the head of the group. "That's where the sausages are?" asked Nori with a small laugh.

"You bet," agreed Bofur.

The paintings they passed weren't very recognizable or famous; Bofur had had luck scrounging them up or buying them from private and sometimes black markets. However, they were beautiful, genuine and certainly detailed and perfect. Nori had never cared for art, but Bofur had somehow managed to share his enthusiasm for art. Frankly, Nori may have picked up a fact or two about art, but he preferred when Bofur played the flute or clarinet back at the flat.

They came across a particularly fine painting of cliffs by the sea, and although Nori was looking at the painting itself Bofur was busying itself with the encasing of the painting, and looked grim as he looked around it suspiciously. Bofur was usually, if not always, cheerful and kind, but if there was one thing he couldn't tolerate it was bad maintenance.

"Marco," he called to a nearby man, and began rebuking him for the state of the glass in Italian with a brittle voice. Nori was distracted by the rows of paintings that continued on and on monotonously, and when his phone rang he was only too glad to take the call, although a nearby woman was glaring him uncomfortably.

"Henrie Fournier," he answered glibly, using the alias he had taken in France, since most of his callers to his private cell phone were associate from France and his various jobs.

"Hello, Nori," answered a familiar voice.

Nori's eyes widened in astonishment. Familiar? It was, in more senses than one.

"Balin?" Balin Fundinson. He was distantly related to them, and had always been present in the family reunions his parents had always put up. It brought him back bad memories of fights with Dori, when he was a teenager, of the ennui back then. He fidgeted with his tie, unsure of what to say. Nori who was always so sure of himself.

"I suppose it has been a long time," laughed Balin from the other side of the phone. "And ever since the incident-"

"Yes," interrupted Nori, recalling quite clearly when he had gotten the news of his distant family's misfortune. He had been angered then, but it was at least a decade and a half ago. It had fallen to the back of his mind.

"We'll need you. _And_ Bofur," added Balin decisively. "We are going to pull a job, with a big crew, to-"

"You don't mean-?"

"I do." After a pause came a crackle of laughter, as the reception was bad. "Tell me Bofur is still into jobs and not tooting his flute every other day."

"No, no," Nori assured Balin. "He's the curator at this place in Milan, as you may already now, but he pulls a job about thrice a year, he's told me," he explained.

"How long have you two been in Milan?"

"Oh, not long. Four months. It's just while the commotion dies down in France," murmured Nori absently as he began to think of what Balin was suggesting: the Erebor estate. It was swathes of magnificent country land in Scotland, with a few mines that had been found nearby, and a grand mansion that had been burned down through sabotage unproved. Also, he remembered, the stolen money in the old vault was to be accounted for. A smile crept its way back to his face as he thought about the rewards that would be given.

"Is Bofur there?"

"Yes, but let me ask you something. Are you serious? You're going after the money-?"

"Not just the money," interrupted Balin impatiently. "The estate."

"How can you steal someone's land, especially with that greedy snake sitting on top of it?" asked Nori cynically. "And even if it were just the money, you would mean a few million pounds for everyone take would partake in this job?"

"All details will be explained when you get to Glasgow. On May 21."

Nori chuckled. "That's more like it."

"Ori's in," added Balin casually, knowing fully that it would seal the deal.

Nori opened his mouth in protest. "No. He's a boy, and he's at MIT. God, I'm starting to sound like Dori. Is he really that good? Well, he's at MIT, for one thing, but at heists?"

"The very best," assured Balin, although Nori wasn't very convinced.

"And let me ask something else. Who's going to be the genius that pulls off the operation? You? Dwalin?"

"Thorin."

Nori looked down. Thorin was the very best, although he had gotten on his bad side more than once. But it wouldn't matter here. He would be fair in the matter of spoils...but there was still the matter of impossibility. It was impossible. Smaug never left the house, according to rumors long forgotten and now dredged up.

"He'll be just in every matter, Nori; you don't have to worry about that. Or Bofur."

"Oh, Bofur won't care," said Nori sincerely, and then followed the group when it strode onward to more paintings to be seen. "As long as the sausages are free."

"What?"

"Nothing," answered Nori quickly, laughing softly. Bofur's eye was on him now, and Nori pointed a finger up warning him to wait.

"Who else is in? Bifur, Bombur? Please tell me Dori is _not_ coming, or I walk off the job," he threatened gloomily to Balin. Balin's smooth reply satisfied him.

"No. He doesn't do illegal business any more, ever since you began to escalate the life of crime," explained Balin. "And yes to the other two. Bofur will be glad."

"He better not be, Balin," warned Nori once again as he hung up, and to his delight, a nearby table held a plate of various types of cheese and sausages, as promised, and a few glasses of wine labeled by name on cards beside each glass. But as he walked forward to take one he noticed the entire group except for Bofur, who let out a raucous laugh.

"What?" he protested as he took a small slice of sausage stuck on a stick.

Bofur laughed once more as he ate the slice quickly. "It's forbidden to use a cell phone in here."

* * *

_Piazza Giuseppe Grandi, Milan, Italy. Calliope Apartment. 6:24 p.m._

"Let me get this straight. Thorin Oakenshield is pulling a job. _The_ job."

"Correct." Nori was absently agreeing with everything Bofur was saying as he looked out the large window, while Bofur smoke anxiously as he awaited answers.

"To get Smaug out of his stolen property."

"Exactly." The flat was rather large considering Bofur's pay was good, but not enough to pay the flat-_a_ flat in Milan, one of the most expensive cities in the world-so Nori assumed he still had money left from earlier heists. The furniture was rather shabby, too, in contrast with the size of the rooms (especially the living room) but the best one was the couch Bofur lounged in to smoke or use his computer or play the clarinet or flute; red, large, comfortable.

"How exactly does he plan to do this insane job? Or is it about the money only?"

"Uh-huh. Wait," said Nori as he turned around. "I mean I don't know about the money."

"It's quite a lot of it, according to what I've heard. The Oakenshield diamond mines were, oh, incredibly famous. Too bad Smaug ever swallowed their company."

"Their priority, I think, will be the estate, Bofur," explained Nori. "It will be Thorin who will lead to the job, so I don't even know how he'll manage it."

"And Bifur and Bombur will be involved?"

Back to monotonous answers. "Yes." Nori again went to the window and admired the city's skyline from the glass.

Bofur laughed. "I'm in. Anything my brother and cousin get involved is nuts and pay off extremely well."

"Bombur was once caught," Nori reminded Bofur but kept his eyes on the horizon absently.

"Yes. But the sentence was a few months. The other times no charges were pressed, because what all of us do is steal from people who deserve it. Who have done something illegal themselves. Not only does this give us a way out, but it's...a sense of morality, I suppose, even when we're doing something wrong," explained Bofur.

"Is that why you leave hundred dollar bill in every place you raid?"

"No, that's different," complained Bofur. "That's just me being kind, you see."

"So, Glasgow?" asked Nori, and he was starting to feel keen with the idea, although his mind still reeled at the impossibility. Then again, he did the impossible every day. He was a skilled acrobat and cat burglar, after all.

"Certainly. Wouldn't miss it for the world. What about Ori? Are you going to convince him to leave or stay?"

"If he's sure, he'll stay. He's stubborn, and he's twenty years old. He can do as he likes," answered Nori evasively, but Bofur dropped the matter amiably.

"I just hope the sausages are free," confessed Bofur as he reached for the table beside him for the clarinet case under it. Now it was Nori that was laughing at his phrase.

"Now what's going on?" asked Bofur, tilting his head in confusion, but Nori just kept laughing.

**Note: Should this story/chapter get more than 30 reviews by Wednesday I will continue, unless I am inspired. That will be all. Thank you for reading, all reviews are welcomed.**


	4. Archstone North Point Apartments

_1 Leighton Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts, United States. Archstone North Point Apartments. Sunday June 15th, 5:23 p. m._

Ori's fingers flew across the keyboard anxiously, and if he ever noticed the phone was ringing he didn't care enough to pick up until it stopped ringing. Finally, his eyes were off the screen, his fingers off the keys, and his attention out of his work. He took his time to rub his eyes and stretch before reaching for the cell phone that lay on the bed beside him and look at the screen.

_Balin._ Last time he had seen Balin he had been fifteen years old, Nori had broken Dori's nose and Thorin still had his property. _Good memories, then,_ he thought himself. He willed himself to call back instead of going back to his work. Not illegal, of course, but it was for a part-time job he had gotten in

He stood up while holding the phone to his ear, and paced around his room uneasily. It was furnished simply, despite it being large and comfortable, not to mention his only. A bed with white sheets, two bookshelves (one with books, one with notebooks), a not-very-modern laptop computer on a desk, and a chest of drawers.

"Balin speaking," answered a crackly voice at the other end.

"Balin? It's Ori. You called me just about-"

"Ah, yes. Ori, you've been working with, erm, let me see...the Moretti twins in a job two years ago, with Kreutzer a few months ago..."

Ori's eyes widened. This was bad. It was exactly the thing Nori had been through; blackmail, tips from unfriendly people...would Balin threaten him? Oh, if only he had listened to Dori when he had the chance! "What do you want?"

"Oh, no! I'm not going to blackmail you, boy! It's a job offer."

He covered the receiver and put the phone away from his face and sighed heavily. Ori went to his window and made sure no one was close enough to hear the discussion. "Yes?"

"Thorin Oakenshield's offering you a chance to go to Glasgow in six days. You're either in or out now," advised Balin quickly. Ori hesitated then, knowing how often he'd been tagged Nori's brother in the world of crime. It was frankly irritating when he had just begun to build a name for himself, even though Dori thought it wasn't the best name for him there could be.

"Is this because of my brother? Because if it is, I'm not trading on his name, you know," answered Ori elusively. He was fairly sure what this scheme would be about. The Oakenshield estate of Erebor, located in New Zealand. He had only been a teenager when it had happened, and since they were distantly related to Thorin's family he hadn't paid much attention to the news, even though Dori had been fairly outraged by the incident. There was also the unaccounted for money in the vault of 260 million pounds, but the police had been neglectful and lazy (probably even corrupt) about the case, and Smaug must have taken it for himself. It had never been proved: there wasn't even proof that Smaug's men had been the ones to sabotage the mansion. But they all knew better. Ori had forgotten it, what with pulling jobs to support himself without Dori fussing over him as he always did. It was extremely annoying.

"Nori _will_ be involved, but that doesn't mean anything. We're asking for you, as a technician."

This was too sudden for him. He sat down on his bed and nervously covered his face with a hand. "Wow. Uh...I'd...I'd have to say yes. This _is_ about the-"

"When hasn't it been? The reward will be an equal share in fourteen."

"God. You mean it? I-wow. How long until the day of the job?"

"June 21st we'll debrief you. You'll have to stay around six weeks until the day we're pulling it off," explained Balin patiently. "You're at MIT, right?"

"Yeah, I..." he was at a loss of words. "You're going after the money that was stolen? Even when-? No, you know what? I don't care. I'm not afraid. For at least sixteen million-"

"Eighteen million," corrected Balin with a chuckle. This wasn't fair. He felt completely cornered, but why ever not? Eighteen million pounds apiece sounded too good to be true.

"Eighteen million. Sounds perfect. I-I don't even know what to say. The exact date for the job?"

"June 27th," replied Balin. "All details will be cleared up at the meeting in Glasgow. There we'll tell you where the meeting is."

"Yes, yes, I'll be there," repeated Ori absently, still shocked with the offer.

* * *

_877 Cambridge Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts, United States. Atwood's Tavern. Wednesday June 19th, 8:30 p. m._

The bartender was used to seeing men dumped at the bar, tired of work, angry at the world, all sorts of occasions; especially on empty nights. This guy was a mix of the three. He looked sixty something, wore an expensive looking suit and a ridiculous-looking hat over thinning hair that didn't detract from his grumpiness in the least. He kept fidgeting with his tie and looking at the door, as if he was waiting for someone. That was the unknown part of the job at a bar, she thought to herself as she brought out the most expensive wine they had (in a not very expensive place).

"Thank you," answered the man hoarsely with an Irish accent. "Have you seen a young man, about twenty, of brown hair..."

"No, not really. Why're you asking?" answered the girl steadily with a suspicious look at the man. He looked like a gentleman, although looks could be deceiving. Then again, clothes didn't.

"Oh, he's my brother," he said casually, taking another look at the door. "I'm supposed to meet him here."

From the counter and through the windows Flo could see two men approaching the bar, talking amiably among them. One was the described brother; he was young, of brown hair with a childish face, and the other one resembled him very faintly. He seemed to be in his late thirties with graying hair, as if he had been through stressful moments sometime in his life, and dressed simply for the occasion, in black pants, a white shirt and red tie. But when the younger man opened the door, Flo could tell with one glance that her client's appearance was not planned. The other one's face soured at him, and she could detect an ongoing argument between the two.

"Hello, Nori," said her client, his face harsh and angry, taking off his hat.

The younger man was flabbergasted, but the other one just looked at him. "Was he supposed to come?"

"No, no! I swear I didn't tell him!" protested the younger one to Nori.

"It was Thorin who told me you would both be involved," answered the other sternly. "I assume you convinced him to agree, Nori? You couldn't keep it to yourself?"

The other two sat beside him; the younger one on his left and Nori beside him. Flo knew best to get away from a family situation, but instead she simply moved on the customer a stool beside them, always keeping an eye on the trio suspiciously.

"You know I never get him into anything, Dori!" whispered Nori fiercely.

"Don't you? Is that why Ori-"

"I chose to do jobs for myself, Dori!" answered the youngest with a steely gaze.

"You see why I gave up on you, Nori? You're a bad influence on-"

"If anyone was a bad influence, Dori-" interrupted Nori angrily, but Ori cut him off.

"This isn't just some job, Dori. This has reason," said Ori, deathly calm.

"It does, but I don't trust either Thorin or that man that's collaborating with the information," replied Dori to both his brothers, and Ori shot back immediately.

"What about Balin? You don't trust Balin? And you always insisted about fam-"

"So this isn't just about the money?" interrupted Dori to Ori, more curious than sharp.

"No. no it's not. You know out of all people Thorin has to give it a try."

Dori sighed. "So that's it. You two are going to ruin your lives. Don't go to Glasgow."

"Also Smaug will instantly link us to you, and you're a competitor in his business, so there'll be no problem whatsoever," added Nori tastefully, and Ori elbowed him, scandalized.

"I stopped funding these things three years ago," pointed out Dori neutrally.

"It's also about fairness, Dori," said Ori, trying his best at being diplomatic. "Even when it's a normal job we two make a point at-"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes. I know that," answered Dori dismissively, as he was concentrated in the matter deeply, and looked around the bar.

Nori gave Ori a confident smile, knowing fully well they had turned their older brother to the dark side for the first time in so many years.

Finally Dori let out an angry grunt. "All right. All right. I'll do it." He proceeded to glare at them.

Just as Ori was about to make a fist Nori elbowed him as he looked at Dori in surprise. "You-you will?" He had reason to be surprised, more than anyone.

"I mean it," sighed Dori heavily. "And not a word to anyone about this discussion to Thorin or Balin or anyone else, okay? They have enough material for jokes already," he grumbled.

It was then when Flo returned with the bottle, taking care of not eyeing them too suspiciously.

"Yes, thank you, put it here," said Nori arrogantly with a smile, but Dori looked at him. _Remember I'm in charge again_, his glare seemed to say, and Ori shrank back impulsively.

Flo placed the glasses and then the receipt on the table, her cold way picking up on Dori, who after taking out his wallet and putting down the money on the receipt he pulled out eight hundred-dollar bills on the counter and smiled at her winningly.

Flo smiled and took the money happily, and winked at Dori.

* * *

_877 Cambridge Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts, United States. Wednesday June 20th, 2:30 a. m._

"Are you sure he said the word 'Thorin'?" said the voice on the other line.

"Definitely. I mean, the bar was empty, only me and a few other guys attending them, and it's true; no one else of importance would have caught their conversation. It was really lucky I got to hear the whole thing, or to hear it at all," confessed Flo to the phone freely as she walked down the street, pulling on her scarf on a whim, and then fidgeting with the buttons on her coat. Really, why was it so cold at this time of year?

"Any other words you didn't understand?"

Flo detested to hear that voice, but she forced herself to answer. "Smaug."

A pleased laugh came on the other side. It sounded reasonably smooth and British and polished, but she had seen how he looked actually, and Flo forced herself not to hang up.

"This is perfect. Really, having a network even in America is useful," he commented, although she was sure it was to someone on the other line. "They did say 'Glasgow'?"

"Yes," she said once again, looking around, and was glad when finally a cab went towards the street at two in the morning. "Taxi!"

"Glasgow. Perfect. But they didn't say where in Glasgow?"

"No," she said, pleased to be contradicting him for once. Honestly, it wasn't that she liked getting involved in these things, but they paid very well, especially for one of the populace like herself.

The taxi stopped right in front of Flo, who got in gladly. She had been shivering from the cold, despite it being a bright June day just twelve hours ago.

"Where to, girl," slurred the taxi driver, but Flo hadn't been paying attention, and lifted a finger to listen closely to the boss.

"Tell the driver that now is the perfect time," said the man smoothly, and hung up.

Flo's face of shock barely registered on the driver as he shot her, as ordered.

* * *

**Thank you to all my readers, despite the fact that I only got 10 reviews. I forced myself to spring up this chapter, I might even update it later once it gets into my head how absolutely mediocre it is, but that will be around Thursday. Thank you for reviewing and following!**


	5. Groinson Residence

_Laurelgrove Dale, Belfast BT8, Northern Ireland, UK. Monday, June 16th. 1:12 p. m._

"Ori, you already told me there is going to be a job. Why not tell the rest?"

"Because it was an accident, that's why! And because it's none of your particular business. You're only seventeen years old. And don't point out that I'm eighteen."

"But it's true! You've had your experience with your brother, I learned from my dad."

"You're not convincing me to speak. And I was hired because I have at least some experience. Gimli, you have no experience at all. So why even bother-?"

"I just want to know, so I can rag my dad-"

"To bring you along to the next one? Be serious, Gimli."

Gimli was seventeen years old. He was just one year younger than Ori and Kili, and two years younger than Fili. True, Fili and Kili had just had to learn how to make their way in this business, but Dori was a millionaire. Nori and Ori had simply gotten in the game out of pleasure. Which was exactly what he wanted. Which was why his own father had gotten in. Why he had stayed was a mystery to Gimli, but his mother was reluctant to share anything about his father's other life to him. His dad, instead, told him every single detail.

"Well, out of curiosity?" He looked out the window at the sound of an approaching vehicle, confirming his suspicion that his uncle was also involved. His uncle Oin rarely came over; and when he did, it always meant his father would be away for a month or two and come back with dubious amounts of cash. Proof of it seemed to be his uncle's sleek and modern car: a gorgeous Porsche that seemed to be right up his alley as a doctor, but Gimli knew otherwise.

"You think I would tell you because of curiosity?"

"You were clumsy enough to leave a message anyone in my house could listen to. Lucky my mother didn't catch you at it. You remembered last time."

"Ye-es, I remembered," mumbled Ori on the other side. Gimli laughed unceremoniously, turning away from the window and instead focusing his entire attention on the phone.

"All the same, I am not saying a single word. Thorin Oakenshield doesn't hire information-hungry teenagers. I'm being hired for a reason."

"Uh-huh," replied Gimli, not believing his good luck.

"If you want to press anyone for information, why can't you bother your dad or uncle?"

"Because my mother doesn't let my father or uncle say anything about what they do in front of me, and she'll be watching them like a hawk. You know how she is."

Ori took his time in answering, probably trying to find the easiest loophole to get him off the phone. "Does she still egg you about college and all that?"

Gimli sighed in annoyance. "Yes, but don't you dare say a word about that. You and Kíli were incredibly lucky to bag those scholarships even before you were out of high school."

Obviously, it was much more than luck. Maybe it was for Kili, but Ori was a technology genius and no one disputed that-except his mother, who would pester and nag him all day about it.

"Well, as much as I felt the same a few years ago, this job is out your reach. But at least the spoils will be big," reflected Ori dreamily, and Gimli couldn't believe his good luck.

"How big?"

"About-ah-no," stammered Ori, and Gimli felt triumphant.

"A-ha! If it's Thorin and involves a lot of money, it has to do with Smaug's estate!" he blurted out victoriously.

Someone rapped at the door, and Gimli swore in a whisper as his mother manually overrode the door. Now, she could be a thief herself.

Gimli liked to think of himself as looking nothing like his mother, who had long blond hair and blue eyes, and looked very pretty. Nah, he was more like his father: wiry brown hair and eyes and a permanent scowl, which weren't much to brag about; but being one of the stars of their school's rugby it could be overlooked.

There was nothing compassionate about his mother now, who leaned on the doorframe and stretched out her hand for him to give her the phone. He relinquished it obediently, and grimaced when she put it to her right ear.

Ori's shocked stammers could be heard from there. "Oh, Mrs. G-"

"Who called first, Ori?"

"I called Gloin and then Gimli tracked me down," said Ori miserably.

"Well, my husband and his brother have just come in. You can call them from our phone, deary," she said to Ori, muting her bluntness just this once.

Ori sighed. "Thank you so much," he gasped as a way of answer, then hung up quickly.

Then his mother pounced on him. "I hope you weren't scavaging for information about your father's other line of work, or were you?" said his mother icily, pinning him there with frosty looks, but he was used to her intimidation.

"So what if I was?"

"I am not going to argue with you about it. But I will tell your father not to tell you anything about it."

"But-!"

"I said we won't argue," cut in his mother, and Gimli sighed in irritation.

"Then I'll ask Uncle Óin," he replied rebelliously.

"Not in my house, you won't, even if your uncle does listen to you," answered his mother, her reply snide and confident. She looked around his room like it was a mess, when he had just cleaned it.

"He's not that half-deaf," said Gimli, defending his uncle against his will.

"This conversation is over, young man. And you are not coming down until your uncle is out of the house," ordered his mother, closing the door as a final exclamation mark.

"You're on speaker, Ori, so spit it out," said Gloin, settling back into his chair comfortably.

"Really, should I...?"

"His wife's not here," rasped Oin, laughing at the end. "So Thorin...?"

"You accepted his offer, right?" asked Ori, trying to sigh on the other side of the phone without being heard and failing.

Gloin nodded, forgetting Ori wasn't there, and after Oin laughed he cleared his throat and answered. "Yes, yes."

"Why is it in Glasgow? Thorin lives in London," interjected Oin absentmindedly, and Gloin rolled his eyes.

"It's at least 18 million each. I'd pay any amount of tickets to Glasgow," retorted Gloin. "Carry on, Ori."

"If your wife were here you wouldn't say that," returned Oin, but Gloin desisted from answering when Ori didn't say anything.

"She's not here, Ori," he reminded him, and Ori continued speaking.

"Are you sure Dori will be doing nothing else but financial work?"

"Lad, I think we'd need him," said Oin. "Our resources are somewhat limited without him."

"More importantly, I need to say: there was a murder over here a few hours after Nori, Dori and I met. Does that mean anything?"

"Why are you calling here for that? Shouldn't you be talking with Thorin about this?" said Gloin, glancing about his living room. It was well-furnished, as befit an middle-class man. Some would call it greed to participate so much in illegal activities, but Gloin (nor Oin, who had just retired from the game a few years ago) wasn't in it just for money, and even more now.

"Are you kidding me? I'm not going to talk to Thorin until he addresses me first," stammered Ori. "And Balin isn't answering."

"I have one question, Ori. How much convincing did it take for Dori to agree to fund the heist?" asked Oin cynically, and warbled voices interrupted him on Ori's side.

"Hello? Hello? Who is this?" asked another voice, with its tone verging on teasing.

"Give that back to me, Nori! God, you really are a kleptomaniac..." Ori could be heard complaining, and then answered. "Hello?"

Gloin laughed. "Nori is actually there? With a name like that to live up to..."

* * *

**I APOLOGIZE FOR THE SHITTY CHAPTER. I was so incredible blocked. Here it is, to be updated in the future, I promise ever so much! Thank you, everyone for being so patient. And I will soon cut to the chase.**


	6. Bifur's Residence

_Coldwell Banker , Bucharest, Romania. Bifur's home. 9:32 p. m._

It was a terrifically enormous house for a man who had been living in the tiniest flat just a few years ago, decided Bombur as he looked up to his cousin Bifur's home. Bifur had told him that he had pulled one tremendous job here in Romania, and boom, he had been left with quite a share. Both his brother and his cousin, he had to admit, had climbed the economical ladder in an incredibly short time; even if Bofur's work had been much more legal that Bifur's. But no matter how much money they miraculously earned in a few years, Bombur still shuddered at the sight of his cousin's forehead, with that jagged scar from the operation removing the bullet from his head. Maybe the bullet itself wasn't there, but it might as well have been embedded. Not to mention how he had been rendered speechless, he also recalled as he rang the bell on the gate. He had sign language, and occassionally grunted out something in Irish (they were from Waterford, in the beginning) but he was mostly unintelligible. It didn't matter: Bofur and Bombur mostly got his meanings, in spite of the sad lack of his voice. The gates swung inward almost instantly, and Bombur was glad they did. It was a particularly cold day, even in summer.

Bifur made a horrible gurgling noise that Bombur dismissed lightly. "And you told me to get acquainted into society, Bifur."

Bifur looks unimpressed and signaled him from his sofa. The living room was as posh as the outisde, in a different way. Some might have asked how a cripple had managed to furnish such a house so quickly, but you simply didn't underestimate Bifur like that. Not only could he get help for what he couldn't do, he was surpringly effective at anything that didn't involve speaking. Also, although Bombur hadn't seen him do so in a long time, he was absolutely terrifying when cornered into a fight. Bombur didn't expect a mere wound in the head to affect _that_ side of him.

"Yes, but Bofur has ridiculous luck. How he is managing to smuggle all these paintings into a museum of his making _in the middle of Italy_, out of all countries, I can't even imagine. Another job will do me good, and do goos to you too, although you look like you're set for life."

Bifur hmphed indignantly and signaled him again. Bombur lifted an eyebrow.

"So the rent is _that_ high. How are you even managing that? I don't even want to know."

"Of course you don't."

When Bombur turned around in surprise Bofur was already there, laughing racously at his astonishment. "So surprised to see me here, little brother?"

Bombur pursed his lips and let out a forced laugh. "If it isn't the king of all smugglers."

"You know that having a flatmate who happens to bring along all these priceless paintings with him is just too much temptation. Well, how are _you_ doing, Bombur? Fine as a con artist?"

"Well, yes. You left the ammunitions business."

"Still mad at me for that? I did _not_ leave it, Bombur, I simply-"

Bifur cleared his voice and eyed his cousin levelly.

"Thank you for contributing, Bifur," said Bofur, then he gave Bombur another one of his devilish grins of his. "Why are you angry that I am going into this job?"

"Because it's been a few years since you've left the ammunitions business. I don't want anything blowing up in my face when we try a hand at Smaug's pot of gold. Smaug's _big_ pot of gold," he added for emphasis.

"It's also concern for me, Bombur. Admit it," he kept teasing him.

Bombur squinted. "Why would I be concerned about you?"

"Let me think. When I began to get into the game you were reluctant about it, you disapproved very much of that job I did with Thorin's boys a year ago-"

"Actually, I disapproved of you roping them in. They were still minors," protested Bombur.

"And you refused to get me involved into any heist you pulled with the Jackson brothers in Dublin. And those were three."

"So what? What is your point?"

Bifur grumbled something in answer, but Bombur could only catch one word in Irish: _Shame._

"I'm not ashamed of him!" answered Bombur steadily, and then Bofur sighed.  
"So you are. Well, even though I haven't been out of my door enough these days, you can count on me to manage all explosives I use perfectly enough. And last time I checked, it was your obsession with food that screwed up that other job you did two years ago."

Bifur let out one of his rare and definitely strange laughs that sounded more like caveman-speak. Even Bombur laughed with him.

"That's not as dangerous as a block of explosives manned by _you_ of all people. Really, I'm not surprised you're rooming with a kleptomaniac."

"He's your...third cousin, not a kleptomaniac," objected Bofur, lifting an eyebrow quizzically.

"Who I bet is really brave to live with a man who hid his explosives inside his bed and in the fridge,'' added Bombur, continuing with the banter. From his armchair Bifur took something out of his pocket and after unwrapping it, popped it in his mouth. The brothers were used to it: he liked to chew gum when he was ignoring them. At least, that was their assumption.

Bofur's complaint came faster than he expected. "Well, I didn't come here to exchange funny remarks with you, Bombur."

Bifur signaled him quickly.

"Or you, Bifur!" answered Bofur, although he was smiling by now. "All I came to do here was-"

"Admit to us no matter how much we beg you stay out of the job that even though you are out of practice you are still going in?"

Bofur smiled again. "I've been in worse places."

Bifur said something again in sign language.

"Granted, but that was one time."

Bifur stood up (he was very, very tall, despite looking hunched over and small when he was sitting down) and motioned something to Bombur after standing beside Bofur.

"You are actually not going to admit to Thorin that Bofur is out of practice?" said Bombur in disbelief. He sighed and turned away from his brother and cousin, making his way through the house as if he knew it. "I knew it. I knew it! You always side with him. Where's the kitchen in this place?"

And he could hardly blame them when they roared in amusement at his last words. Whenever Bombur ate, it was that he had given up.

* * *

**Maybe this was short, but I needed to cut to the chase. Next up-Bilbo Baggins and Gandalf. Thank you all for reading.**


	7. Bag End

_Flat 16, 6 Mains Avenue, Giffnock, Glasgow, UK. Friday May 13th, 3:46 p. m._

The olive green walls were decorated sparsely with newspaper articles of various kinds; Bilbo's best work, if he was being modest. He may have been a freelance journalist but that didn't mean he had earned some repute in the world of journalism. None were of crazy entrenchment in Iraq or anything of the sort. Instead, economical reviews and political analysis were what occupied so much space in the wall. For a time he had worked with the Wall Street Journal but hadn't found America to his liking, and had chosen to become a freelance journalist instead. Because of an article of considerable fame he had taken a temporary job here in Glasgow, and had chosen to stay because of a girlfriend, though he had long left her. Under the wall of articles was the desk of the writer himself as he typed in the computer with a vim and passion that suggested he might be a day without getting up from the chair. Some had called him agoraphobic, but to the eyes of the world his account had gained him noticeable respect. That and his upper middle-class life style summed up his reputation quite easily.

Bilbo Baggins was of short stature, thinning brown hurrying to grey hair, and brown eyes covered by glasses he rarely used in public. Right now, as he stared at the screen and wrote his current article, his mind began to wander but at the same time remain in the writing. It had been the least busy week he had been through by far this year. He measured his days in weeks, see. Seasons were also a way he measured time, but when activity cam by he preferred to use weeks. This particular article was not due until next month for an economy journal, and it was one that would take some time to analyze correctly. This was just a draft.

Journalists often have a special are of interest. Bilbo Baggins' was economy, as previously stated. _Spain will have only a year or two until-_

The phone rang beside him, which made him take off his eyes from the computer screen for an instant, and he took his time stretching and looking around his study before answering. It had olive green neutral walls, a gray carpet, and a bookcase beside the door. On the opposite side was the computer and the framed articles hanging on the wall, and on their left side was the mahogany door. Opposite that side was a small couch for visits, although he did not like to have them in his study. It was only in case.

The phone once again jangled him out of his reverie, and he took it up instantly. "Yes?"

The voice that followed was the expected one, his landlady, who lived in the bottom floor. "Mr. Baggins? There's some queer man here looking for you. Should I let him up?" she said, her thick Scottish accent marring her every word.

"What-what kind of queer man?" inquired Bilbo, stuttering at first from the shock of being interrupted, then a little more curious at the end when the full meaning of her words hit him. He had written a few controversial political articles, but he didn't have any enemies. Even so, journalists could have serious eemies at times, even in a civilized country such as this.

"Oh, he's elderly, tall and-yes? You'd like to speak to him?" she stammered at the end, as a different voice began to speak.

"Hello? Hello? Who is this?" asked Bilbo, his voice ranging on a retort. A not very familiar voice responded instantly.

"Hello. This _is_ Bilbo Baggins?" droned the stranger. He didn't have a very deep voice...it was simply commandeering and had a steely edge to it.

"Yes. Who are you?" demanded Bilbo much ruder than he usually did when dealing with others, but by then the phone had been hung up.

He snorted in disbelief and looked at the phone accordingly, then returned to his seat and continued typing peacefully, if a bit jarred by the visitor, and then jumped when a heavy knock on the door of the living room interrupted him.

"Oh for god's sake," he exclaimed angrily at the ceiling. He had come up to his flat without permission? Couldn't his trusty landlady get rid of this unwanted visitor?

He left his study and went to the living room, and after a few angry mutters he calmed himself and opened the door with the most cordial face he could manage.

The man outside was, as the landlady had said before, elderly: about 70 years of age at least, with white hair and a wrinkled face. However, he was thin and tall and looked very much like he was an active person. He wore expensive clothes and held in his right hand a walking cane of exotic-looking black wood topped with what looked to be a diamond. He could have been a retired businessman, for the way he looked. But right now he wasn't going to slam the door on him. He looked at him in a calculating way, as he was decided something.

"Good morning," he addressed the man stiffly, and he cracked a smile.

"You haven't been out much, haven't you? You mean it's a morning to be good on, or a good morning whether I like it or not or are you simply wishing him a good morning?"

_Now_ he was confused. Bilbo's face contorted in confusion for a moment, then said, quite perplexed, "All at once, I suppose."

Now the man was showing some amusement at his words. Bilbo wasn't liking this at all, like the man had some sort of agenda for him. "Is there any way I can help you?" he phrased carefully as the man pondered deeply, looking at him eerily all the time. When he didn't answer, Bilbo decided he'd had enough of this man. "Good morning," he restated as he tried to close the door.

Quick as lightning, the man placed his cane between the door and the frame, blocking it effectively, and he pushed it open now quite nettled.

"I would have never supposed Bella Took's son would have sent me off unceremoniously like that like a peddler," he declared in irritation, and at Bilbo's mother's name he cooperated.

"Who are you, even?"

"You would know me as Gandalf, I believe," he proclaimed authoritatively, and Bilbo found himself looking at the floor, as if it had been a reason of shame to forget his name. Honestly, where was hr from, and why had he mentioned his mother's name-oh! Now it was coming back, he realized, and looked at Gandalf squarely.

"Gandalf? The man at the, er, family reunions? My grandfather's...what was it..."

"You won't ever know," promised the man solemnly, and Bilbo narrowed his eyes.

"Well, _can I help you?_" muttered Bilbo with little decorum, if any.

Gandalf looked around the room once more, and then gave a little laugh, even if his face did not match to his merry laugh. "I can't wait to see the boys' reaction. Yes, certainly."

"What?" spluttered Bilbo.

Gandalf now looked much more agreeable. "Yes." And then, just like that, he turned and walked down the aisle to the staircase.

* * *

_Same location, Saturday May 21st, 7:32 p. m._

Dinner was always a peacful time at his flat. A loner, some people called him. He did invite people over occasionally-but not on a busy time like this. He was used to just watching TV and eating precooked meals on summer, a journalist's worst nightmare, of course. Today it was lasagna (and rather delicious for having been bought in the nearest supermarket, too. He had never cared for any of those poky journalists who liked to dig deep into what they were eating and found out they were eating cancer-giving chemicals and chicken bones) and right now his attention was on the screen. The dining room/kitchen (why had he even a dining room? Then again, for visits...) was clean and orderly as always. It seemed like the perfect night.

Until another knock on the door startled him. A _knock?_ No one, unless it had been that meddlesome old man Galdalf from last week, would have come at this time and been allowed to pass by his landlady. Who was this Gandalf to say who could pass and who couldn't?

He went to the door uneasily and when he opened it one of the worst surprises of his life was there. Another unknown man, but it was how he looked that cowed him instantly. He was incredibly strong and well-built, and just his face seemed to emanate authority. He looked like he might have been in the army once-maybe not even once, but still. He wore a simple tee and black pants, which weren't very good at hiding the rippled muscles and tattoos on the man's arms.

"Good-good evening. How may I help you?" stuttered Bilbo, and the man offered him his hand with a proud and arrogant glance at him.

"Dwalin. Fundinson. At your service. Is anyone else here yet?" he continued as he stepped in most ungraciously, and Bilbo completely forgot to stop him from coming in.

"Er, no," continued warbling Bilbo, completely forgetting his dignity as he headed to the dining room. He was cursing his bad luck the man entered the dining room, and he had no choice but to offer him something. "C-can I give you something to eat?"

"Yes. Coffee and whatever there is for dinner," boomed Dwalin, going back to the living room and taking a seat, apparently slightly offended.

_No. No. _How exactly had this menacing stranger come across his door? He left sense behind as he hurried to the kitchen in order to get the man his coffee. What _exactly was he_-

_Another_ knock on the door. He was now nettled by this string of strangers coming to his door. He left the coffee preparing and he passed Dwalin, mumbling "I'll be right with you!"

Another elderly man was at the door. He was shorter than the other one, certainly, but there was still some resemblance in his face to Dwalin. He was dressed more formally, in a suit, and had his white hair neatly combed. "Good evening."

"Yes, good evening certainly. Balin Fundinson at your service," said the man, much more polite than the other. But had he really been rude? Then he gave a peek inside and looked delighted to see Dwalin the living room already, and he sped past him anxiously to greet him. "Dwalin!"

Bilbo grit his teeth and looked upward in annoyment as they greeted each other warmly ("This is why they say you've got man's greatest cover, Dwalin! I haven't seen you in a year!" "Then again, those that don't find me aren't looking for me!") and went to the kitchen impatiently.

Only remebering to close the door out of habit he ran back to the brothers, who were now helping themselves with coffee and the new man, Balin, with beer.

"I am _sorry_," proclaimed Bilbo to the two men, who now looked at him inquisitively, "but I don't even know both of you. I don't even recall inviting you into my home."

"But Gandalf-" tried to say Balin in protest when Dwalin looked disapproving.

Another knock saved him from the wrath of Dwalin, and Bilbo once again had to leave his unwanted guests at the kitchen while he went towards the door. And this time his displeasre was even worse when he saw the two newcomers. They were obviously brothers, very young, probably just having left school. One was blond and the other dark-haired, both dressed in fine clothes, and they seemed very excited to be there. The dark-haired one strained for an image of the inside, but Bilbo was careful enough to place his hand on the door so they couldn't push it open. "Have they arrived yet?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know who you're talking about," protested Bilbo.

The other one snorted in disbelief. "Really? We don't cancel things."

"There hasn't been any cancelling," blurted out Bilbo stupidly, and that was the cue for the brothers to introduce themselves.

"We're Fíli, and Kíli," said the blonde man, and his brother Kíli ended it with an "At your service," and they opened the door forcibly without Bilbo having time to stop them.

They were now talking to the other two men gladly, who had begun to get impatient, and greeted each other. Snippets of their conversation passed him ("Hope your uncle isn't late like last time" "Where's the bathroom here?") and at the last bit he strode forward just in time to stop Kíli from entering his study.

"Wait, that's my study," he explained impatiently, "the bathroom's that way..." and he trailed off as the boy followed his finger when he pointed as soon as he did. He covered his face with his palm in exasperation. "Oh why is this happening," he mumbled to himself, and the fourth knock on the door made him lose it. He marched past the other three men that had helped themselves generously from his kitchen with anger. "This is _it! I am not letting in another one of these-"_

And when he opened the door the mass of people nearly gave him a stroke. _NINE_ people were waiting at the door impatiently, and when the first, a nervous boy, tried to step forward they all fell in front of him like a line of dominos...and the next-to-last one wasn't exactly thin.

The very last one he recognized too much as the irritating Mr. Gandalf who had invited them all into his house! He made no attempt to help them all up, or stop them from coming in. They were all making their way in anyway, and Bilbo had a score to settle with Gandalf in the first place.

"You," he began irately to the old man, but he looked dismissive of his anger, and instantly pushed past him with his walking stick, which of course, made him more submissive.

"Now we can begin properly!" he declared as he saw the men all making themselves at home.

How exactly they had managed to scavenge his house to make an entire party for themselves was a mystery for him. After a reassuring from a man that did not look very trustful ("Relax! My brother was a chef once...for specific reasons..."-a sentence that might actually make him look around for health articles) his brother, a fat redheaded man, began cooking expertly in his stead, and the rest were helping him kindly. So far he had caught their names-Dwalin, Balin, Fíli, Kíli, Dori, Nori, Ori, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur-without forgetting them, and that was good. Gandalf hadn't been very helpful either. No matter all the threats he made he was impassive, and he assured him that he had something to gain in this meeting. Meeting! Dinner-party, more likely!

"And how did the landlady let you in?" he had hollered at Gandalf, but quietly enough to not distrub the other guests.

"Oh, the lock was easy to disable," implied Gandalf vaguely as he returned to speak to one of the men ("Nori! Let me remind you that I might actually call the police if you take a single object from this place!") as Bilbo looked at the throng in disbelief. They had all gathered and talking avidly of various subjects. He could tell Fíli, Kíli and Ori were the youngest, that Nori and Bofur were not to be trusted, that Dwalin was not to be crossed. Dori he recognized from an article he had written once, having described him as one of the most profitable men in the diamond market-and did not know he had a kleptomaniac and a genius for brothers. The rest he had no idea of who they were. They didn't seem to have a lader among them, and not even Gandalf could control their activites. This was promising to be a tiring night.

But their merrymaking was reaching its end, when the youngest-looking, Ori, stood and began to make his way to the kitchen with his plate. "It's okay if I wash my plate or...?" he asked innocently enough, and Bilbo detected an American accent creeping into his voice.

Fíli had approached him and was giving Bilbo a devilish smile he did _not_ like in the least, and snatched the plate from Ori. Bilbo was sure that any minute now his flat would be trashed by the end of the night.

But another thump on the door nipped whatever mischief Fíli was cooking up in an instant, and everybody looked stern and business-like at the sound of the knock. Bilbo did not react quickly enough and Gandalf went to open the door for him. Who had arrived now?

The newcomer looked relatively young, even if his hair was black with premature gray in it. He had sharp feautures and a posh man's walk, full of dignity and arrogance. But he had a confident smile in his lips, even if his cold eyes contradicted them.

He looked at Gandalf from the doorframe and made himself in. "You're lucky this is the first door I tried to open with that fake key you gave me. Otherwise I might have been arrested for breaking and entering,'' he accused him as he came in and looked at the men, which had now assembled before the newcomer so respectfully Bilbo was supecting something. However, the stranger's words did make some inpact on him, and Bilbo turned to Gandalf.

"You gave everyone is this room _a fake key to this apartment?_" choked out Bilbo in disbelief.

"Oh, they'll get rid of it as soon as I give the word," claimed the man dismissively. "That was Gandalf's work here."

"Oh, I've had enough of this! Aren't you going to say what this is all about for once and for all?" demanded Bilbo to Gandalf, his words accusing in every way.

The newcomer smiled a cold, polite smile to him, and stretched out his hand to him. "Thorin Oakenshield. If Gandalf hasn't told you yet, we have a...job offer to make you. One that will be worth it we succeed, and if we don't...well, you understand." Then he turned to Gandalf. "You were going to give us the blueprints?" he requested, although it was more of an order.

Gandalf looked down at him disdainfully. "I will as soon as you try and ask nicely."

It was only then when Bilbo noticed he had brought along a cylinder to keep documents in: and had placed it on the couch when he had come in. Now he retrieved it, and gave it to Thorin as soon as that baleful glance to him had gone. With a snort, Thorin proceeded to open it and once the large blueprint were in his hand, he unfurled it and placed it on the table in the living room. They all stood and clustered around it in interest. Bilbo instantly caught a look at the words at the margin. _Erebor, Smaug's Estate_.

The word Smaug interested him. It was the name of a Dutch millionaire who had risen to riches very unexpectedly by buying lots of dying and renegade companies in the mining industry. He now lived the life of an eccentric agoraphobe, and the media was quite fascinated by the man's strange way of life in his home in the Scotland north.

"How exactly did you get this?" insisted Thorin to Gandalf, who answered grimly.

"Your father, who, as you know, was serving a life sentence in Spain, until he died. All he gave me was the instructions on where this was, and it came with the master code of the mansion."

The men all gave surprised looks amongst themselves, impressed by the foothold they now had.

"Wait, wait. You're planning to rob Drake Smaug's home?" uttered Bilbo in confusion.

Thorin looked up with an amused and defiant expression in his face. "Yes. I thought you would be like this, the way Gandalf described you."

Bilbo was instantly insulted by the laughs among the thieves-if that was what they were-and turned to Gandalf menacingly.

"You brought them here. Now, what offer was it you were giving me?"

"Yes," said Gandalf, recalling something. "Balin!"

Balin, the oldest-looking apart from Gandalf, instantly began speaking.

"Time Magazine will have an article on the weekly life of a billionaire. Smaug is one of the main candidates for this article, and we have the opportunity to send a man inside this house without any suspicion whatsoever about his past. We cannot infiltrate this house by any of use. Smaug checks his employees' past scrupulously, and none of us have a clean record to begin with."

Bilbo widened his eyes, completely dumbstruck. "Why are you going to-"

"You may not know of Smaug's past, of course, being only a common citizen," said Dwalin, his voice emphasizing the word _common _in the most alluding manner, which only aggravated Bilbo more, "but his home, and much of his fortune, was stolen from Thorin's family two decades ago. We are planning to rob him out of house and home, not to mention every penny which rightfully belongs to him."

Now he was past flabbergasted. How did such a feud enter his peaceful home like this. Balin immediately sensed his discomfort with the idea.

"We would promise you a fourteenth share of the earnings should you agree to help us in this scheme, Mr. Baggins," he elaborated to Bilbo, "and that would be around twenty million pounds...as a minimum."

Bilbo staggered to a nearby chair, nearly fainting at it, and the men laughed at him. "I-I-why haven't you contacted the police in the first place?"

Balin scoffed. "Only two teams of policemen were witnesses that could actually pin down the involvement of Smaug. One was taken out by debris and the other one was corrupt enough to keep quiet about it. And it's too late for that, anyway."

_Twenty million pounds _kept going around in his head. "How-how exactly are you going to put in to work for Time in the first place?" stammered out Bilbo.

"That comes later. First, we need you to agree."

"Later, Balin," interrupted Thorin, standing up. He addressed the men now. "Now, you all know the risks. You know what could be achieved. But you need to know the way we plan to get to our goal.

"The first problem to deal with is reconaissance. We have been given the master code of the security system of the left wing; the wing where the vault is. There are still several personal guards and maitenance that go through this place every day. The bad thing is, because of Smaug enormous ego, he actually made the vault the master bedroom after remodeling."

Nearly all of them whistled or made noises in surprise. "He's that weird?" scoffed Óin.

"Why didn't someone sane steal the house?" whispered Bofur on his right.

"But he leaves the bedroom at least. It's not like he's there twenty four-seven," said Ori in disbelief. "So that doesn't really matter."

The rest began calling for him to shut up, and Thorin silenced them in a few moments.

"Our journalist will have to live the life of Smaug for a week, according to Time magazine," reminded them Thorin. "That's why we need Mr. Baggins. He will live at the mansion for a week, which will be inmensely useful to us, but it will also give Smaug a distraction. He will deviate from his usual routine in order to appear camera-ready. We do know this. The information was given to us by Gandalf, who knows much about Smaug but not enough to do this by ourselves," pointed out Thorin accusingly to Gandalf, who glared at him.

"If I say we need him, you are going to need him!" thundered Gandalf to them, and everyone was intimated by his harshaness, even for a moment. Thorin decided to move on.

"The second task is to get him out of the house for exactly one hour, at least."

"Didn't you say this guy was agoraphobic?" interrupted Fíli.

"He seems to be, yes," began Thorin, but Gandalf cut in.

"It's an act. Despite what is commonly said he has come out more than once out of his stolen mansion," he contradicted Thorin with a steely glance, and urged him to continue.

"So he's not an agoraphobe. Why would he be keeping up the appearance?" asked Kíli.

"Our main objective will be the vault/master bedroom. With details to come, three of us-Nori, Bofur and Kíli-will make our way into the vault. The security system will be controlled by Ori here by then.

"I am absolutely confident we will be able to make this. If not, I wouldn't have asked any of you into this job in the first place. So, if anyone wants to leave, do so now."

Nobody gave any indication of leaving.

"Good."

"Just-wait one moment." Bilbo rose from his chair. "I don't appreciate you people breaking in into my house with an illegal offer in the least."

"Breaking in wouldn't be the words exactly," tried to cut in Fíli in protest, but Bilbo was on a roll.

"I am sorry. You aren't going to count with my help for this scheme of yours. I live a good life by myself, I don't need twenty thousand-"

"Million," interjected Kíli.

"_Million_," seethed Bilbo to Kíli, "pounds to make my life better."

"Mr. Baggins, please, I beg you to reconsider," pleaded Balin.

But this was just too much for him. "I am sorry for you, for having your home stolen by an insane greedy businessman, but this isn't my fight, there's too much to lose and I really don't need it. I am sorry-I really am."

And with a concluding sigh, he sat down again, to everyone else's disapppointment.


End file.
